One life. Live it

like the selfish, wasteful bollix that you are…

The slogan fits the car so well.
You’ve never been snowed in. Not in Blackrock, no. You’ve never had to gather cattle in the Wicklow mountains.
You’ve never needed a big shaggin petrol guzzling 4×4.

95% of your mileage is done in the city center.

You have one life, and boy you are living it.

Like a tumor.

I don’t quite believe that you belong to the same species as the guys who built Newgrange.
You are one stage of evolution further.

On the path to oblivion.

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One life. Live it

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But mine didn’t end suddenly in the grill of a Norn Iron Ford Unfocused.

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Overall, not a good day

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It’s old.
But it never ages.
It’s beautiful.
But it has a leaky roof.

Who gives a shit, it never rains in Ireland.

It’s a classic beauty.

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Classic beauty

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If the snow won’t come to you…

… then get in the car and go to the snow.

It was just a half hour drive to the Dublin mountains (hills for anyone else on the planet).
The snow was there. The hesitant drivers who should never be allowed near a road with 1 inch of snow were there.
The kids complained that it was bitterly cold (it was).
But they had fun.
Especially when I sank to my knees in snow and ice and icy cold wet turf.

This morning I had a happy surprise. So near yet so far. But more about that weird feeling of being-half-a-grand-richer-and-yet-feeling-poor sometime soon.

I haven’t quite digested it yet.

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I see her in my dreams.
The Killer Granny in the silver Micra.

The steely determination with which she ignores all rules of the road known to man. And unknown to granny.
The regularity with which she hits the 6,000 RPM in second gear.
The screams of the 1.1 engine.
The screams of the crushed cyclist.
The screams of terror as I wake up in a sweat.

I see her in my dreams.
The Killer Granny in the silver Micra.

I am the cornered squirrel and she is the cobra.
I am transfixed by so much beauty. Cruel beautiful beauty. Lethal beautiful silvery shiny beauty. Blue-rinsy shiny shiny silvery killer beauty.

She chases me. My foot slips on the pedal. She is pedal to the metal. My bike wobbles. The engine screams. And just beneath the scream of the engine I can hear it. And my blood freezes. I can hear it. The Nissanity of her laughter.

I see her in my dreams.
The Killer Granny in the silver Micra.

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The Fear

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